Why did Larry always have to scratch his behind at the worst times? Here he was, about to say “I do” to Jennifer and his butt had to itch. Right in front of three hundred people, too.
He was actually marrying Jennifer, the willowy blonde he’d first touched when he informed her, your husband is dead in a car accident. He wanted to pinch himself – right now, in the behind – he couldn’t believe he was getting married, and for love, too. Paunchy, bald, chinless Larry Sanderson was marrying Pasadena’s most beautiful widow.
As the priest made his way to the vows, he thought about their courtship – from the shock of Marlon’s accident, to the tender and familiar touches of friendship at the funeral, the kiss at the reception that lit a spark between them. And the chance meeting at the Beverly Center’s Sunglass Hut, the afternoon of reckless passion in his small flat off La Cienega, the walks on the beach, dinners in Malibu, Pasadena, and Oxnard … and the proposal, when she said yes. And this wedding.
Oh, the hell with it, Larry decided. He was in love, so who cared? He put his right hand behind him and scratched the hell out of his butt.
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